Love Game by Elise Sax

third cup of coffee this morning. I was pretty close to having an accident. I was squeezing my knees together, but it wasn’t helping.
    “What kind of cop goes out without a gun?” Luanda asked him. “Or a phone? Any cop would be better than you. I wish any other cop in the universe were locked up in here with us.”
    The red light went out, plunging us into darkness. We froze, waiting for the light to come back on, but it stayed pitch-black.
    “Do you hear that?” Bridget asked.
    “Like a rattlesnake is at the door,” Lucy said.
    “No,” Ruth said. “It sounds like a teakettle, an angry one. Like it’s going to blow.”
    “Flash bomb,” Remington said, and pushed us to the other side of the room, gathering us in his long arms. Just as we reached the wall, bright light flooded the room, forcing me to shield my eyes. A loud boom went off at the door, and it creaked open.
    Remington charged the door but was taken down when a man was hurled into the room. Remington stumbled backward under the weight of the body but quickly caught his balance, tossing the man aside like he was a rag doll.
    But he wasn’t quick enough. The door clicked closed, and despite Remington’s furious attempts to open it, we were once again locked in, the lights turned off, leaving only the dim, buzzing red glow.
    The man lay facedown on the floor near a puddle of wet plaster. He wasn’t moving, and I hoped he wasn’t dead. Not only because I would need a whole lot of Xanax if I were trapped in a small room with a corpse, but also because I recognized the cut of his suit.
    Remington rolled the man over with his foot. He stared for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly and ran his fingers through his Bruno Mars hair. “Hello, boss,” he said.
    FOR THE first time in what seemed like forever, our attention was shifted beyond our imprisonment. Police chief Spencer Bolton lay unconscious on the panic room floor.
    I held my breath, willing him to show a sign of life. My lower lip threatened to wobble, and my eyes got watery. It was unthinkable that Spencer could be dead. He was way too obnoxious to die. I had just gotten used to him—almost—and if he didn’t wake up soon and say something offensive, I was going to lose it.
    “Goddamned crazy Rellik is working his way through town,” Ruth said. “He’s dragged in half of Cannes already. At this rate I could open Tea Time in here.”
    “I wish he’d thought to kidnap Bird Gonzalez,” Lucy added. “At least then I could get a shampoo and set while we’re stuck here.”
    “I wonder if his psychosis was triggered by being raised in a sexist, misogynistic society,” Bridget said.
    Spencer moaned.
    “I think he needs mouth-to-mouth,” Luanda said. “I’ll do it.” She dropped to her knees and leaned down.
    “I think he’s breathing,” I told her.
    “The cosmos is telling me he needs the kiss of life,” Luanda said.
    “Is that what they’re calling it these days? The cosmos?” Ruth asked. “Lady, your cosmos is way too old and loony for that boy.”
    “I think we need to give him some air,” Remington said, gently lifting Luanda off Spencer and moving her to the side.
    Spencer stirred, opened one eye, took stock of his condition, and jumped up into his best Rocky stance.
    “Chill, boss,” Remington said. “You’re among friends.”
    Spencer’s eyes darted from person to person until they landed on me. “Are you kidding me?” he asked in my direction.
    I put my hands on my hips and scowled at him. “What are
you
doing here?” I asked, as if he were crashing our party.
    “What am I doing
where
? What are
you
doing here?”
    “She’s trapped in this panic room with the rest of us, darlin’,” Lucy said.
    “Panic room?” He directed the question to Remington.
    Remington caught Spencer up on our situation, his demeanor never changing from his usual calm and cool. His voice was all business, unemotional, and yummy smooth jazz.
    Spencer rubbed his head. “Rellik got